you're too young & eager to love

Apparently, I am worried that, with the start of the new semester, my creativity will be leeched dry by term papers and tedious assignments. As a result, I seem to be over-compensating with fandom writing.

I present: 1. A marauder-era Bellatrix-Voldemort snippet.

2. An Empire Records piece, focused on Debra, which means that Berko makes plenty appearances as well.

In typical Ashley-fashion, both of these pieces just end. I ran out of steam.




Bella, he calls. Beell-laaa.

His lips don’t move but the sound is clear, distinct. Drawn out as if from a serpent’s tongue, curling into her brain until her eyes focus and her body moves. This is before Azkaban; this is before the lightning scar of a young child; this is before her husband when she is married to her ambition alone. He was not Voldemort then but still a Lord worthy of servitude. More human in appearance, his hair dark, his eyes holding a cruel cunning that, arrogantly, she thought matched her own.

What did he see? Her wand? The ability she had for devotion, even then? How skillful she would become at the Cruciatus Curse? Or had he been young enough, soul-full enough, to notice the heaviness of her hair or the milk-pale sheen of her skin? Sharp features and a full mouth, the flavor of blackberries in her subservience.

Unlikely, but then –

Bella.

Like the chime of a worship ring, and he had curled his thin fingers forward in a beckoning gesture.

“You will kill those you have touched before me.” When he places his hand beneath her chin, lifting her gaze forcefully, there is no warmth to his touch. It is the closest she’s ever been to feeling nothingness.

“You will bear your scars from me.” In contrast, the tip of his wand when placed on the inside of her forearm is fury-hot. Seething, scarring, a symbol of a snake and skull.

“You will always be hardened and cold.” The last vow is a whisper, a private demand, and he had moved her hair to press his slitting mouth close to the shell of her ear.









The only person that doesn’t realize A.J. is in love with Corey is Corey.

Debra realizes it. Noticed it the first week she started working, actually, just like she noticed many of the underlining currents shifting around the store. She’s good at observations, good at numbers, just not so great with people. Joe seems to understand that the best; he offers without pressing, and the offering is enough to irritate her by itself, but the lack of pressure is a relief. A damn near breath of fresh air. She’s tired a lot of the time, and she doesn’t mind trading quips with Gina behind the cash register, but she hates meeting the questioning, concerned glances from her coworkers.

Berko’s the worst – he has a clinging need to him, a desire to comfort with touch, and she realizes this doesn’t make her the nicest of people, but really? Honestly? She doesn’t like being touched unless she initiates it, and she expects Berko to know that by now.

Debra’s tired of expectations most of all.

Still, she perseveres. Slowly. Apathetically.

A.J. helps. It’s hard to dislike him, and she tries on a daily basis. But he’s energetic and friendly, quick to grin behind his latest work of art, and he has a habit of lifting her – literally -- of making her feel light, effulgent. The only drawback is whenever he lets her go and her feet touch the ground again so that all the heaviness creeps back. The music from her headphones can’t block it out either.

His need to constantly be a hero is annoying, but she guesses everyone has their drawbacks. Berko’s might be assuming he can take care of people – or just her. It’s thoughts like these that make her feel mean all over again, then guilty, and she puts on a face that’s placid and unreachable.



Berko doesn’t tell anybody this, because it doesn’t matter, but the bracelet he wears on his left wrist is actually from an old charm necklace. Debra made it, picked apart the links and removed the charms, shaped it into something else that was colder and more befitting.

Three of the studs in her right ear use metal from his old guitar – the one he accidently broke during a show.

She has a radical sense of devotion, like her taste in music.



They make each other laugh. Sometimes thanks to Eddie’s brownies or a bottle of whiskey or just because they think similarly. This is after she shaves her head, after the fake funeral, after the concert on the roof. She doesn’t think things are easier, but there are nights that are better than others.

Berko takes to running his hand over her scalp, the shortened hair both sharp and soft beneath his large palm. She takes pieces of his Bazooka Joe without asking - it bothers him that she rips through the miniature comics without reading. She’s not the type of girl that leans with her head nestled into his neck, but they lay together, hands close to touching. Or sometimes she’ll put her head on his chest, ear above his heart, and listen to the beat like it’s a drum pounding.

They don’t talk much about the future. Mitch sells the store to Joe, and the jobs remain the same. Corey and A.J. are close to leaving – successful college paths beckoning to them. Berko doesn’t make much money from his band, and Debra doesn’t have plans beyond getting a new tattoo, but they both get more shifts so it’s okay. She stays in his shack, even when his band mates pass out on the limited floor space, and he knows it’s because she misses her mother and can’t stand to look at her father. Then, because it’s necessary, she presses her short frame against him on the old couch, legs tangled, covered arms sliding behind his shoulders. He falls asleep to the feel of her metal necklaces warming between them.